'Round about Sunday morning, Diana and I were congratulating ourselves over Eli’s dramatic shift from being a colicky, acidy screamer to a quiet, happy smiley baby. He slept for major streaks Saturday night and was in route to having a hap hap happy Sunday. If memory serves, he was making us omelets and changing his own diaper.
We sounded like Oscar winners. “Diana, you’re great.” “No, Rick. You’re great.” “I think the worst is over…”
It was the jinx heard ‘round the world. Poor little Eli’s stomach decided to wage a Tet Offensive. He hasn’t been able to sleep for more than an hour at a time and now more than an ounce of super expensive formula is too much for him.
Acid Stomach + No Sleep = Screamer.
We feel so bad for him. All red faced and squirmy. And I feel bad for Di, who’s tried everything short of doing summersaults while holding him. No…wait. I just got a call from Di. Summersaults don’t work.
Luckily, Eli’s gonna go to the pediatrician tomorrow so hopefully we’ll have some good, new expensive drugs for the little guy.
Fingers crossed.
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